I reach from a long-ago
summer of a hundred flowers
to rock the dangling touch-me-not,

close my eyes to thumb
through pages of Peterson
for the name of tiny white bells.

You are here because I�ve placed you so -
in a slip from temporal ties,

a pooling of yesterdays
and tomorrows where daisies
and buttercups are the prophets
of love and tastes on toast.

In the woods, periwinkles and trilliums -
here your hands conduct
the biorhythms of shadows,
draw an insular space around me.

The sun�s song slows
to a dignified largo above
the gambrel ceiling of leaves

and there is the linen cool
of moss at my back,
the hot press of your mouth
seeking my small noises.

All I can give -
these thoughts, these daydreams,
warm and clear as consomm�.
I feed them to you by teaspoon
in the waning light of an afternoon.



�2002 by PJ Nights
~previously published in ERWA & Ophelia's Muse